


There is no morning.

by GhostofBeltanesPast



Series: Pining Fools [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Morning After, Pining, Reader-Insert, Sneaking Out, Unrequited Love, Walk Of Shame, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28159755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostofBeltanesPast/pseuds/GhostofBeltanesPast
Summary: Every time, you go back. Knowing he can't, won't, will never love you. And still, you give him everything you can.[Reader/Nyx Ulric, unrequited love drabble. One-shot.]
Relationships: Nyx Ulric/Reader
Series: Pining Fools [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063547
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	There is no morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own FFXV. I'm just playing in the sandbox.

He's there.

In the morning, when the first hint of light filters through the window that _still_ doesn't have any curtains, growing stronger bit by bit.

You can feel his breath against your neck, even and slow; the skin is chafed raw from his stubble, and the prickle when he nuzzles his face into you kind of hurts...

But he mumbles something drowsily and holds you just a bit tighter. Wishful thinking makes the noise sound almost like a word.

Almost like "stay".

You wait until he settles again to shift gradually, sliding out of his too-small bed with the utmost care. Your clothes are scattered, but you don't have to look hard -- the single room is still so sparse, despite your best efforts.

He won't take down the picture you painted, a landscape thick with trees. It's not home, but it's the closest you can give him.

He uses the drying rack you brought for his laundry, and he eats the leftovers you leave in the little fridge...

...but it's not _home_ , and you know it. It's barely more than a cell, and he lives like asceticism is all the rage.

You'd asked him, once, when you first got to know each other. Why he'd live like this, if the king paid him enough, if he had a family you didn't know about, or something.

He just shrugged you off, saying he didn't care enough. It didn't matter to him either way.

You know better now.

He cares. You can see it in the way he stares at the poster over the bed when you lay together, postcoital but somehow unable to find any bliss -- he longs for home, aches for it in a way he'll never ache for you.

And even so.

Knowing that, you still come twice a week (and sometimes more). Uninvited, arriving on his doorstep with food and heart in hand.

Every time, you offer him both.

Every time, the food is what he takes.

You've gotten good at this, though -- no tears, until you're secure in your own apartment, door locked and curtains pulled shut. It's easy now.

Your bra and shirt by the head of the bed, where he'd pulled them off impatiently before you tumbled to the mattress in a tangle of limbs and _need_.

Your underwear, on the arm of his chair where you'd let him pull you into his lap again, heart in your throat and butterflies in your stomach.

Your skirt, somewhere between, kicked to the side as he pressed you against the cold, rough plaster wall and kissed you hot and filthy.

Your sandals, by the door with your purse. Ready for a quick, quiet escape like always.

By now, the elderly couple downstairs don't greet you when you leave; they know you're in a rush, and not for the nonsense reasons you used to give them.

He'll wake up alone, but it's okay. You're sparing him the discomfort of telling you to leave. The tension of a 'what now' morning-after.

There is no morning for the two of you.

The sun rises, on your way home, finally visible over the Wall. The warmth washing over you is the most painful peace you can imagine, and you have craved it since you woke up; longing for the light to banish the desires you can't let yourself voice.

You have never told anyone why you trained yourself to be up with the dawn.

He may not feel the same but you love him more than the air in your lungs.

You time your shopping when he's at work so you can't accidentally-on-purpose see him.

Three days from now you will make your journey downtown in the dark once again.

He is everything you have ever wanted. You cannot have him.

His heart belongs to Galahd, and the people of Lucis, and it will never be yours.

And you will go back, unasked, every time.

The sun is blinding, for a change, not a cloud in the sky.

You will go back. You can't help it.

In that little room, in the too-small bed, he's there.

Just like always.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. Here's some reader-insert whump for you lol.
> 
> Thank Lady_Kaie for tangentially inspiring this one!
> 
> If there's enough interest, I might do a companion piece from Nyx's perspective, because Y/N here sure does make a lot of assumptions, and I can't presently say whether or not she's right.


End file.
